


Busted

by Elkian (SuperImposed)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Drabble, Flashbacks, Gen, Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, probably-innacurate portrayal of ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 17:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14919456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperImposed/pseuds/Elkian
Summary: McCree's breastplate doesn't armor him. In fact, the tubing and lights almost look.... medical....





	Busted

Eyes on the prize.

 

Not too hard, one as huge as ol’ Rein and the other practically cavorting in his damn seat. McCree fakes another pull of whiskey and pretends to look down at the newspaper, not at the unlikely pair behind him.

 

Jamison ‘Junkrat’ Fawkes’ enthusiasm is so infectious it takes McCree a touch of effort to keep his neutral expression. There’s an almost childlike wonder to his huge gesticulations, the crudely-etched bank maps and plans and scrawled smiley faces.

 

The more carefully detailed lines of wires and detonators sober any further trains of thought.

 

The mountain of a human known only as ‘Roadhog’ is far calmer, barely moving beyond the mostly-steady rise-fall to his breath. Occasionally he slaps a huge hand over Junkrat’s mouth - and thus most of his face - when the scrawny man gets too loud, though never enough to draw the notice of the exhausted barkeep. Junkrat keeps glancing at the bigger man throughout his ludicrous planning, waiting for confirmation or (much more often) denial before elaborating further.

 

It takes most of two hours for the conversation to wind down. Roadhog nods, and Junkrat pops out of his seat instantaneously. “Alright! Let’s blow this joint!” he exclaims, followed by a series of little manic giggles.

 

McCree waits for both to stand, step out the door - the street’s dead and the bar isn’t, after all - before pushing himself up-

 

“Brr-rr-rriiiing!” Junkrat chirps-

 

His lanky hands juggle a couple of grenades, clacking dangerously together-

 

A pin pops, both Junkers fumbling to shove it back in as the little sphere begins to tick-

 

Tick-

 

_Tick tick tick tick-_

 

_Click. Clack. Tick tock tick tock-_

 

_McCree rolls for the grenade before he even begins to process what he’s seeing, fingers clasping around the smooth metal without a thought. Desperation surges and blossoms almost painfully in his chest, and he whips around, body motion powering his arm as he aims for the bastards and-_

 

_Click._

 

_BOOM_

 

“Hey, man, you okay?”

 

McCree’s right hand slowly unclenches from his chest. He’s on the floor, back pressed to the wood of the counter, left arm flung out against it as if staving off the horrors of the world. Cold sweat pours down his cheeks, his neck. His breathing stutters, rapid, rapid, slowly forcing himself to slow down.

 

The Junker pair is long gone, no bloom of scorch marks marring the doorway or street. The ringing in his ears and smell in his nose is as ephemeral as the pain in his stump, in his chest cavity.

 

McCree coughs, mostly to remind himself that he can still breathe, and shakily makes to his feet. “Yeah,” he manages, not looking at the barkeep. “The two that just left, which way did they go?”

 

“Didn’t see,” the beleaguered bartender says, “thought you fucking fainted.”

 

“Sorry.” McCree fishes out some cash to cover the tab. “I’ll be alright. Have a good night.”

 

The outside air is a little cooler, a little clearer. Not enough to banish the phantom pain and faint tremors gripping his body, but enough to remember that they’re temporary.

 

The bank. He needs to-

 

Orange fire blossoms in the distance, along a muffled boom, and McCree groans, falters. His knees hit the road and his stomach surges ominously.

 

There’s an old flowerbed here. Jesse stares at it, trying to identify the remaining plants, memorizing the shape of the metal and paving. To feel the gritty street under his gloves and not the wetness of his own blood, the pulp of his flesh and stab of bone shards. To not feel his lungs shake apart, to not remember what it was like to look down and see red where his chest should be-

 

“You’re okay,” he tells himself, trying to breathe, “you’re okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> /shrug this is also an old-ish fic that I have nothing further to add to, though I think it stands pretty well on its own
> 
> McCree's breastplate doesn't give him armor pips or more than 200 HP, so I've always thought of it as a medical device - especially since his line with Mercy about smoking implies to me that she could _heal_ or _fix_ him, not just reverse the damage. 
> 
> And losing an arm to, say, an explosion would likely take off more than the limb........  
> anyways  
> thanks for reading!


End file.
